


he's frustrating but it's all a cry for attention

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Gen, M/M, Rogue Affairs au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 15:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12774063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Jim Gordon finds himself outside of the GCPD in a new position managing the Rogues of Gotham. A series of events as he works on his first case for Ed Nygma, aka the Riddler, aka a giant pain in his ass.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been kicking around this kind of alternate redemption for Jim Gordon and here it is. There's a chance I'll write something from Ed or Oswald's pov in a sort of "years down the road" style rather than filling in the scenes from this one.

Jim handles the document in his hands very carefully as he reads one of the most artfully crafted job descriptions he's ever seen, but even with buzz phrases like ‘head of department’ and ‘in charge’ he can see through to the heart of what it really means for his career.

“It's a demotion,” Jim says, and the Commissioner pulls a few hesitant faces that confirm his suspicions.

“Think of it as a lateral move with the potential to move upwards.”

“Definitely not a chance of that,” Jim sighs. “Is this even a real job or can we stop pretending and call it banishment?”

“It's brand new, and completely unique to Gotham.” Definitely a banishment. “You'll have your own office here at Arkham Asylum, and your word is law, at least for the individuals you'll be managing. If you say we need more security, you'll get it. Medication or equipment, it's yours. As long as you aren't wasting millions of taxpayer dollars on donuts your every demand will be met.”

Jim lets himself chuckle darkly at the thought. “How about you stop giving me the sales pitch and really tell me what this is. I can take it.”

All of the mirth softens out of the Commissioner's face and he sighs, sitting back and taking a drink from his most likely lukewarm cup of coffee. “You've done a lot of good in the past to help this city, no one's denying that.” He can't seem to figure out a way to put things delicately, and Jim kind of wishes he'd just be blunt and get it over with. “But you've also done plenty to hurt it too.”

“So this is a punishment,” he says. He feels strangely accepting of it too. Call it karma or his comeuppance, but either way he's honestly not all that shocked. “Why not just get rid of me? Why give me power over something like this?”

“Because frankly, Gordon, someone has to, and we're not exactly drowning in volunteers. And if there's any time in Gotham where less than savory methods are still acceptable, I'd say dealing with Gotham's Rogues Gallery is that time.”

-

Jim keeps his hand on the door to his new office as he surveys the scene; standard wood and metal desk, average chair, and plenty of filing cabinets. It's nowhere near a captain's office but it's certainly more than he expected.

“Is there something wrong?” The director asks, prim and proper and very out of place in Arkham. She tips her head to the side so she can look in the room to inspect it.

“I'll be honest,” Jim says, “I kind of expected a dingy hall closet, maybe one on the fourth floor in a back corner far away from the fire escape. This is,” he pauses, “not bad. Workable. I've seen far worse.”

“Well be sure to say something if it's not going to be workable. We don't have the biggest budget available but I'm sure we could spring for a coffee maker. I requested this position be filled months ago, but we're not exactly drowning with applicants, and I'd hate to see the one we do manage to get leave because of a bad desk chair.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Jim deposits his overcoat on the desk and turns back around to follow the director around. “Unless the building's changed much, I don't think I need a full tour.”

“There isn't a lot of extra cash for full scale renovations,” she explains, “but we've made some changes. Cleaned up the outpatient wing and increased the security measures in the wing where we keep most of the rogues.”

“That I would like to see,” Jim says. If he's going to be managing the rogues he needs to be familiar with them, as if he can really get to know them better than he already does. “Do you have files for me? Or some sort of master list?”

“File requests normally go through me,” she says, “but we will move them to your office once you're settled in. Just be sure to keep them organized.” She grabs a folder from someone at the front desk as they walk past and begins going through the contents, handing packets off to Jim as she explains them. “This is your GCPD copy of your medical info, just be sure it's up to date. Here is a packet explaining policy and procedure, read that as soon as you can. As you get more familiar with your new role you'll probably find a few things you'll want to purchase for work use. Just come to me and I'll schedule you some time with the accountant to learn our system once the need arises.”

“Right.” Jim tugs at the collar of his shirt and tries to loosen his tie without making it look sloppy. “So I report to you, but is there anyone else I have to go through first?”

“You don't report to me,” she says, “well, that's not entirely true, of course what you do is under my jurisdiction and it's my job to make sure things are running smoothly, but you're head of this department. And you're very familiar with the kind of characters we have in the city. I'm going to be looking at you for advice as much as you'll be looking to me.”

“I'm no therapist-” Jim starts, but she points to the policy packet already in his hand. “So it's all in here?”

“You're welcome to ask about unusual methods for difficult cases.” That's all these cases are, he thinks, but he nods and accepts a third packet from her for insurance. She drops the empty envelope into a nearby trash bin and uses her key card to unlock a heavy security door. “Down this wing we have your main focus. You'll have your own key card by the end of the week, but for now I'll give you a tour.”

-

Jim pushes open the door to the bar and steps into the dimly lit space, nodding at one of the wait staff as he enters and making his way over to the bar. He slides onto one of the many empty barstools and watches as Harvey steps out of the back, cleaning a glass that has no water spots and shaking his head sadly. “Look what the Catwoman dragged in. This doesn't look like the face of a man with a promotion.”

“Word got around that fast?”

“Jim, it's a bar, and cops drink, and as you know when they drink, they talk,” he says this all matter-of-factly, as if he's disappointed in Jim for not seeing the obvious. “And word is your days at the GCPD are over.”

Jim opens his mouth to protest, but he closes his mouth, eyebrows going up reluctantly as he nods. “I’m supposed to think of it as a lateral move instead of a demotion.  I’m the new Head of Rogue Affairs. Still don’t know what it really means, but it's probably the nicest way I've ever been told no one wants to see my face around town again.”

Harvey nods along and sets the glass he was cleaning on the back counter. Jim watches him reach underneath the bar and drag out two shot glasses and a bottle of dark alcohol, whiskey probably, and he uncaps it and fills the two glasses before sliding one over to Jim. “Only the highest proof for you, partner.” He taps their glasses together before lifting his up in a toast. “Here's to your not promotion.”

“Bottoms up,” Jim mumbles to himself over the rim of the glass before knocking the shot back and closing his eyes as it burns his throat. “I should have quit before it got to this.”

“Uh-uh, I've seen you quit the force and it wasn't pretty.” Despite that he still pours Jim a second shot without hesitation, and this time they both drink. “So which of the many nails in your coffin finally did you in?”

Jim coughs against the back of his wrist and shakes his head. “Not really sure. Commissioner spent more time making it sound like a good thing than explaining why it's happening.”

And he doesn't want to speculate. Not with Harvey. Not when things are finally on track between them, even if it's fragile and full of landmines.

“They're sending you to Gotham's very own Siberia. Too useful to get rid of but your days of being a poster boy are long gone.” He pours another drink for Jim and himself, but only nurses the small shot instead of gulping it down like Jim. When he moves to pour another Jim stops him, and nearly sends the shot glass flying in the process. “You becoming a lightweight on me?”

“No,” he says too loud, and he takes a few deep breaths. His cheeks feel too hot, and he undoes his tie and tosses it onto the bar top. “Don't laugh.”

“Hard not to,” Harvey chuckles and moves Jim's shot glass out of harm's way. “So what's the old asylum like these days?”

“Can’t tell you that,” Jim says. “Spent half the day reading policy about it.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Harvey chides him and leans in over the bar. “You’re in charge of the Gotham Rogues. You can’t dangle something like that in front of me without sharing  _ something _ .”

“You really wanna know?” Jim stares Harvey down, but he still nods. “It’s,” Jim sighs and shakes his head, “it’s not great.”

~

_ “Here’s a copy of the inmate roster.” _

_ The director hands a sheet to Jim and he begins scanning the sheet, and halfway down the page he actually stops dead in the middle of the hall. “Nygma’s actually in Arkham?” _

_ “For now,” she says, exasperated, “unless he has his way. He’s made several successful escape attempts in the past but this time I think we’ve solved our little Riddler problem.” _

_ She rounds the corner just outside the main hall and leads Jim to one of several heavy metal doors and slides open a slot at eye level. At first he can hardly see anything in the dimly lit room, but eventually his eyes adjust, and he doesn’t like what he sees. He can’t even be sure it’s Ed that’s been restrained in a straightjacket that’s been fastened to a wall, at least until he glares up at the door in a very familiar, Ed-like way. “Jesus,” he whispers. “You don’t think it’s a little much?” _

_ “The Riddler is a known killer and overall menace here in Gotham. We’re worried it still won’t be enough.” _

_ ~ _

“No windows, no lights, just,” he shrugs, “nothing. Puts a bad taste in my mouth.”

“That’s the whiskey,” Harvey jokes. Jim doesn’t even smile. “What do you want me to say, Jim? The guy had a few screws loose  _ before  _ he started running around in green terrorizing the city. If it keeps him out of Gotham’s hair then Arkham’s doing its job.”

“No, it’s not.” Jim rubs his hands over his too-warm face and up into his hair. “And I don’t know what they expect me to do about that.”

“You thinkin’ they picked you because of your less than pristine reputation?” Harvey hazards. Jim gives him a warning look, but he can’t deny the thought’s already crossed his mind a few times today. “So what are you going to do? Quit? This is Gotham. They’ll find some other schmuck to bend the rules to keep the rogues off the streets.”

“Yeah, but it won't get rid of the problem, it just puts it somewhere else.” Jim leans in real close and whispers, “Riddl-Ed's escaped Arkham at least twenty times in the last six years. And after what I saw today,” he just sighs.

“No one wants to be there, present company included, but these criminals, these,” Harvey gestures with frustration, “whatever you want to call them, they made their choices. This is where they belong, Jim.”

“I’m not arguing that,” he growls, “but all they’re doing is hiding the problem. It’s like,” he waves a hand, “like poking a snake with a stick and wondering why it bites.”

“So don’t poke the damn snake,” he snaps back. “They want a Jim Gordon that bends rules? Do it in the way that always pissed off every captain you ever had.”

Jim folds his hands together and rests them on the bar. “Every captain, huh.”

“Don’t you even try to say otherwise. At least half of these gray hairs,” he points to his head, “are because of you.”

-

The director doesn’t say anything as she shuffles through the papers Jim handed her, but she sends him several confused looks the further she gets into his proposal. He just sits back in the chair across from her desk and smiles. To her credit, she reads it all the way through to the end before setting it aside and asking, “are you certain you understand the unique difficulties we’re having with keeping the Riddler here at Arkham?”

“Yeah,” Jim says. “Thought it might be time to try something a bit different.”

She folds her hands and Jim prepares to hear another variation about doing things by the book, or as close to the book as Arkham gets. “Jim, I think it’s safe to say we’re still in a transitional period and you’re still getting your bearings. What you’re suggesting is,” she flounders for a few seconds, “impractical at best, and in reality it’s downright irresponsible.”

“No offense, but what’s being done clearly isn’t working. Is he off the streets?” Jim shrugs. “Sure, he’s not harassing anyone for now, but how long will it last? A month? Two? Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll be here for a year or two, but once he’s out again? And he  _ will  _ get out again, he’ll just get right back to menacing the city.” Jim puts his palms together and all but gets on his knees to beg. “It’s already my responsibility, so if this doesn’t work? Well, I’m sure there’s a bar in the city that could use a second bartender for the late shift.”

-

Jim swipes his brand new key card and watches the small light turn green as it accepts his clearance to the high security wing. He keeps his footsteps measured as he casually walks over to the door to Ed’s cell and uses his card again, and again he’s cleared for entry. The room smells vaguely of stale piss and sweat, and he hadn’t noticed before but Ed’s glasses are missing. If Jim had any remaining reservations before they’re certainly gone now.

At first Ed doesn’t look past Jim’s shins, but once he gets close enough for Ed to see something must tip Ed off that this isn’t a normal visit, because he goes from sneering at Jim’s shoes to squinting up in confusion. His face splits into a wide grin. “Oh, the illustrious Captain Gordon,” he giggles. “Isn’t this an unexpected surprise. Here for a game? What kind of pig walks on two legs?” He laughs harder. “A cop!”

“Not the captain anymore, and I’m not here to play your games,” Jim says.

“No one ever is,” Ed mopes. He tugs at the chains attached near his right shoulder and frowns. “Lost your luster?” he says, full of fake sympathy. “Must be tough to be outshined by someone with a thing for dressing up for Halloween year-round.”

“I'm not here to talk about the Batman either.” Jim says, a bit more forcefully than he intended. “I'm here to make you a little offer. Something I think you'll like.”

“You're making me an offer?” He laughs cruelly. “Think you can really improve on the sorry state of my sanatorium sanctuary? Maybe a nightlight? Or, oh, how about something found with envy, greed, and illness to decorate.”

“Green?” He answers and Ed's grin gets wider. “I'll keep it in mind,” he says lightly. Jim lowers himself down onto one knee and Ed's grin wavers, adding something strained and uncomfortable to the mania. “No offense, Ed, but you look like hell.”

Ed scoffs, but it loses something when the chains stop him from completing the sway he attempts. He gives them another tug and snarls when, again, he doesn't get anywhere. Before he can get frantic Jim puts a hand on Ed's shoulder and makes him stop struggling, and even though Ed jerks away to shake Jim off he rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes.

“I don't think I'm reaching when I say you hate it here.” Ed barks out a laugh. “Yeah, thought so."

“Somehow I doubt this offer of yours includes freedom.”

“No,” Jim agrees, “but I can get you out of here, out of this,” he gestures to Ed's straightjacket, “so what do you say?”

“What do I think?” Ed laughs. “I think you think I'm an idiot.”

“You aren't an idiot,” Jim reassures him, but Ed still looks wary, “but even a smart guy like you is going to need some time to get out of this. I'm offering to expedite the process a little bit.”

There's a brief moment when Jim's sure Ed is going to agree to his terms, and then it's gone, leaving Ed with a sneer and zero trust in his eyes. This could take some time. “Oh, I'm sure you are. You'll expedite me right to interrogation, right? Telling the truth on a technicality? You'll get me out of here long enough to pin something on the Riddler? No riddle! No clue! No dice! I'm not ashamed of my accomplishments, unlike some people I know.”

Jim can't decide if Ed's trying to call him out or hoping some of the other rogues in the wing will hear, but he doesn't let himself get distracted. “Look, I get that you feel like you can't trust anyone, including me. Maybe especially me.” Ed scoffs. “But I'm not bringing you to interrogation. I'm trying to help you.”

“Oh,” Ed laughs, “oh that is rich-”

“I'm only talking to you before the transfer happens as a courtesy,” Jim snaps. He's beginning to lose patience. “I'm in charge of your unique treatment here at Arkham, and I've deemed your current situation to be insufficient.” He digs around in his pocket until he finds a key. “So now, I'm going to say this one time. I want to get you out of this room. Do you want that too?”

Ed shakes his head, not really to disagree as much as he wants to seem disappointed in Jim. Well, that makes two of them. He didn't want to have to pull rank over something as simple as a change of scenery. “Fine,” he sighs, “as if you weren't getting your way in the end regardless.”

“Good,” Jim says as he begins unlocking the chains from Ed's straightjacket. “Now, I do have one more question, are you going to behave yourself during the transfer?”

“You're actually giving me an option?” Ed asks, disbelieving but maybe just a bit curious. “And what if I refuse?”

“We can do this two ways.” Jim stops unlatching the chains long enough to make Ed look him in the eye. “One, you walk calmly, and don't make a scene, and you don't cause any trouble. Or we can sit here quietly and wait for an orderly to come around with a sedative.” Ed grimaces. “Bet you can remember where we go better without that running through your system, just a thought. I know how much you like information.”

Ed looks away and bites his lip, but he's not nervous. There's a devious edge to his hesitation, and Jim assumes it's because the less useful information the Riddler has in his arsenal the better. “Oh sure,” he says sarcastically, then he swallows once, and his voice is level when he continues. “I suppose I can muster a bit of self control for your sake.”

“Good, because we're doing this now. Hope you're ready.” He moves to start again, but pauses to ask, “where are your glasses?” and it's the first time Ed looks genuinely unsure about something. “Did they break?”

Ed licks his lips. “What's purple and small yet,” he huffs, then says in a rush, “bigger than me and you?”

“I don't know.”

“Neither do I,” Ed says. He's intently watching as Jim returns to removing the chains and undoes another three, leaving just one attached at the center of his back. “About the glasses, either, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jim repeats, sighing. He can't spend all morning getting Ed transferred, but he feels a strong urge to at least figure out what the staff has done with Ed's glasses. They're both probably expecting them to have “accidentally" gotten thrown out with the trash.

But the longer he's over by Ed the more he can't ignore that the man is in desperate need of a good, long shower. Clearly something is being done to allow Ed some basic necessities, but whose definition of basic is a bit less clear.

But he's already asking an awful lot of Ed's willingness to behave. Trust is going to be hard earned for both of them, and as much as Jim wants to be able to trust Ed to keep it together under a guard’s watch while he searches he can't ignore what an opportunity that will look like to Ed. Better to do this in stages and let him adjust gradually than throw a hundred new things at a guy known to be volatile and prone to tantrums.

“Okay,” Jim says as he undoes the final chain, and Ed sighs with relief even though his arms are still trapped. “Let's go.”

“Uh,” Ed scoffs, “I think you're forgetting something.”

“You have no idea how much convincing I had to do to get this to happen at all. You think I managed to get them to say yes to letting you free of that before the transfer?” Ed begins sulking and refuses to look at Jim. “What happened to behaving?”

“I'm not a child!” he snaps in an awfully childish way. He's huffing his breath, face red and angry, but Jim just stands up and waits until Ed scowls and reigns himself in.

Jim has to help Ed stand up, something he's not pleased about based on the murderous glare, but he doesn't struggle against Jim's firm grip. His legs are a bit wobbly now that he's no longer sitting, and two steps later he's stumbling forward with no way to right himself. Jim catches him, but either the fall or the sudden, jarring touch startles Ed, and he flinches. Jim loosens his grip a bit but doesn't let go, worried Ed will topple over the moment he does.

“Take it easy,” Jim says softly. He guides Ed over to a wall so he can lean on it while he unlocks the door with his card. “We don't have to go very far.”

Ed ignores him; he won't even open his eyes, too busy breathing in through his mouth and out his nose. Forget tantrum, Jim's more than a little worried Ed may hyperventilate before they're even out of the wing.

“Ed?”

“What has no hands but grips you tight,” he says, and then his eyes are open, flat and unfocused.

Jim looks from Ed's face to the straightjacket. “This'll come off once we get there,” he says firmly. Ed shakes his head, but offers no alternatives, and when Jim puts his hand on Ed's arm he begins moving without protest.

The hallway between the high security wing and Ed's new cell is empty at this time of day. Most inmates are eating, some might already be to group therapy, but Jim doesn't care as long as he can get Ed moved without him trying to incite a riot. The last thing either of them needs is for this to go south before it's even gotten to really start.

The guard outside max security scowls at Jim as he signs Ed out, but Jim just nods and smiles and keeps a firm hand on Ed while removing him from the inmate list. Ed is startlingly well behaved for the half minute he has to stand still and wait, and he's equally as cowed and quiet as Jim signs him into the medical wing containing Ed's new cell. It isn't until the security door closes with an audible click that Ed starts fidgeting.

“This isn't interrogation,” he says, although Jim can hear a hint of a question too. He isn't actually sure how well Ed can see without his glasses, but he's been interrogated enough times to remember the route even without his sight.

“I told you that earlier,” Jim says. He brings them to a stop in front of a door with ‘Nygma, Edward’ on a temporary nameplate and slides his card. Ed takes a deep breath and steps inside far enough for Jim to follow and shut the door, and he doesn't move a single muscle while Jim undoes the sleeve clasps to the straight jacket. “I know I don't have to tell you this, but it's going to hurt if you try to move your arms too fast.”

“What is this?” Ed mutters, already letting his arms lower but still keeping them close to his chest.

“Thought you could use an upgrade,” Jim explains. “I know it's not much but, hey, it beats your old cell.”

There's a twin bed, probably not long enough for Ed to stretch out fully but it's better than the floor, and along the longest wall opposite the door there's a wooden desk and plastic chair. Opposite the bed there's a tiny room with a toilet and a sorry excuse for a shower, but it's private and quiet and, based on what Jim's seen, the first sort of creature comforts Ed's had at Arkham since his arrival.

“It’s policy I go through some new rules with you in this new cell,” Jim says. Ed doesn't turn around, but he tilts his head in Jim's direction. “Obviously, don't use anything in here to hurt yourself or damage property, and don't flood the bathroom. Other rules still apply. This is still sort of a trial basis since this is normally the medical wing, but between you and me I'm considering this a permanent move.”

“We're in medical.”

“Yep, hey I'm undoing the rest of this,” Jim announces before he touches Ed's back. The standard uniform he reveals is grimy from sweat. Ed lets the straitjacket slip off and it drops to the floor, leaving his arms swinging freely, albeit a bit stiffly. “Hope you won't be too disappointed but you're scheduled to eat in here too. Your file had some,” he laughs to himself, “interesting situations mentioned when you're allowed to eat with the general population.”

“What is this?” he hisses and whirls around. Of all the emotions Jim expected over this move, blinding rage wasn't one of them. “What are you playing at, Gordon?”

“I'm sorry?”

“This,” he points wildly, hand shaking, “this… this place! This- do you think I'll fall for this!? For this… good cop routine?” The more he talks the louder he gets, stalking closer to Jim on shaking, wobbly legs.

“There's a stack of crossword books in the desk drawer,” is Jim's response, “and something I want you to read over, but that's a secret between you and me.”

“I'm better with a pinch of truth, a touch of conviction-”

“There's crayons, sorry, they didn't want you having anything sharp.”

“You're lying!” he screams.

Jim slips around Ed and over to the cheap wood desk. He opens up the top left drawer and pulls out the crossword puzzles and the copies of old case files he smuggled in this morning. He hands the stack to Ed and watches him gape like a fish. “You can write on the case files. They're copies. When you finish these puzzles just let me know. I'll meet with you a few times a week to monitor your adjustment progress. And I'll look for your glasses, otherwise we might need to get another pair ordered.”

Ed doesn't even blink as Jim unlocks the door with his card and waves goodbye to him, but his hold on the files and books tightens a fraction after the door is open and Jim is out in the hall. “Take care of yourself Ed.”

-

“We’re getting some reports from the staff that your suggested move of Edward Nygma hasn’t been very positive.”

Jim looks up from a stack of forms and sits back in his chair. “He’s still there, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” the director says hesitantly, “but the meals he’s brought are hardly being touched, he’s not sleeping-”

“To be fair, I don’t think he was really sleeping in the old cell either.”

“-and he’s refusing to take his medication,” she says firmly.

“Do you know what happened to his glasses?” Jim asks. She looks very frustrated with him in general. Jim sighs, twirling his pen between his fingers. “It’s been two days.”

“He needs to take his medication.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Jim says. “I just think it’s a little early to call it a failure.” Jim tosses his pen to the desk and pushes his chair back. “I still think this is the right move for him. Give me, I don’t know, two more days? I’ll see if I can speed up the adjustment process.”

“One,” she counters, and he nods. He’s honestly surprised she agreed to any.

“Deal.” He gets out of his chair and tosses the pen on his desk. “While I do this, can you actually look into his glasses? I've known Ed a long time, and I'm pretty sure without them his vision is good to about,” he holds his hand out as far as it will reach, “here, or maybe a bit farther. Seems kind of cruel.”

“The Riddler has spent years torturing and killing people,” she counters. “He's vengeful, and petty.”

“I know,” he says. “So we should probably not sink to his level and give the guy his damn glasses.”

He knows he's not going to get anything out of her for at least a month after that comment, but it needed to be said, and Harvey did say to bend the rules the right way, so he feels justified. Jim leaves her standing in the doorway of his office, staring after him in shock.

He picks up Ed's daily medication from the nurse's station, uncomfortable with the knowing look he gets but accepting that people thinking he's about to strong arm Ed into behaving might work to his benefit for now. He also gets Ed something small from the cafeteria, some yogurt in one of those small plastic cups and a fruit cup, things he'll be able to stomach after avoiding food for a couple days.

He thinks about knocking on Ed's door before opening it, but decides against giving him an opportunity to mess this arrangement up just because he's upset. Jim unlocks the door with his card and steps inside, scanning the small room to find Ed.

He's sitting on the bed, and based on how undisturbed the blankets are and the dark smudges under Ed's eyes that's all he's used it for. They're red too, and wide and wild. He watches Jim with obvious distrust as he grabs the desk chair and moves it so they're across from each other.

“We have to talk,” he says. Ed pulls his legs up off the floor and folds them in front of his chest like a shield. “I hear you're not eating. Here,” he holds out the fruit cup and yogurt, and after Ed snatches them away he pulls out a metal spoon, but he keeps it out of Ed's gangly reach. “Why aren't you taking your meds?”

“Easy. They don't work.” He reaches for the spoon again and Jim sits back a bit farther. “They. Don't. Work.”

“So we'll get you in with the psychiatrist again,” Jim says. “But stopping them isn't a choice you get to make right now.”

“I can be cruel or fair, unusual or,” he gnaws on his lip, “or-”

“Ed,” Jim gets his attention and holds out the spoon. After a few seconds of staring Ed reaches out, pausing to watch Jim with wary eyes. Jim sets it in Ed's hand and he snaps his arm back. Ed tears into the yogurt cup and takes a few quick bites. Jim's beginning to suspect Ed's refusal to eat doesn't have much to do with Ed snubbing his nose at the food on hand. “The guards aren't bringing you food, are they.”

“They are,” Ed says, and Jim's hope sinks a little, “but they think I'm stupid. Hello? Ever heard of drugging food? They’re-they're trying to make me sleep. To, to get me off guard long enough to take me back. I'm a getaway in your own home, but only if it's wanted! I don't want to sleep!” He turns to his right and scowls. “Shut up.”

“Ed,” Jim calls his attention back from, well, from something Jim can't see, “are you seeing things?”

“Yes? No, sort of.” He huffs. “I know they're hallucinations, Jim. Just,” he waves the hand holding his spoon before getting distracted by it and bringing a spoonful of yogurt to his mouth, closing his eyes with relief. “They aren't a problem.”

“They kind of are,” Jim says.

“Only when I don't sleep,” Ed mumbles around a mouthful of fruit. “But don't you start! The second I sleep, bam!”

“Bam what?”

“Just-just,” he gulps, “just admit you only brought me here to mess with me! This. Is not. My cell. It's clearly a stop over,” he says. He lets his head thump against the wall and closes his eyes briefly. “Whatever gratitude you think you'll get from me isn't coming. There’s no way the director would approve this as a permanent move.”

“You're sort of right,” Jim says, and Ed's eyes snap open, “but you're wrong too. This room is yours. I don't know how to get you to believe that but I understand why you don't. But it won't be yours forever if you don't start eating and sleeping and taking your meds.”

“Don’t forget taking the fall for your little cases,” Ed snaps, and then he starts mocking Jim. “Here Ed, just solve these for me, by the way we're assuming this is how you did it. Surprise.”

“Ed, those cases are older than you.” To prove it Jim goes to the desk and picks up the files scattered across the surface. He flips them all open and presents the case summaries to Ed one at a time, being sure to point at the date. “Even Gotham doesn't have a judge that corrupt.” A series of conflicting emotions pass over Ed's face, and he looks away, curling around his meager portions of food protectively. Jim sits back down and presents the small paper cup of pills, bent out of shape because of his shirt pocket, and Ed stares down at the doses inside. “I guess there is another thing. Tell the psychiatrist these aren't the right doses for you if they're not working like they should.”

Ed stares down at the pills for a while more, then he plucks them out of the cup and holds them in his hand. “I didn't slip any sedatives in there, scout’s honor.”

Ed pops them into his mouth and chases it with the sugary juice still sitting inside the fruit cup. Out of habit, or maybe just for Jim's sake, he opens his mouth to prove he actually swallowed them, then he demands, “I want another blanket. And no unpackaged food.”

“Kind of early to start making demands.” He still makes the mental note as he gets up from the chair and returns it to the desk. “I don't think I can swing that with the kitchens, but it shouldn't matter because you're going to sleep.” Ed side eyes something in the room, maybe one of those little hallucinations of his, and then he stares up at Jim with disbelief. “It's part of the deal. Food, meds, sleep. I'll bring the blanket by in a little bit though. This wing is drafty as hell.”

-

The second Jim steps into the bar Harvey is shooing him out. “No way, your kind isn't welcome here, freeloader.”

“Good evening to you too,” Jim slides onto his usual barstool and there's already a glass being poured before he can ask. “I'd be your best customer if you actually charged me.”

“Instead you're just a pain in my side, drinking all the good whiskey I order for myself.” Harvey tips an already half empty glass against the rim of Jim's and takes a sip. “You haven't been drowning your sorrows all that much this week. Nygma finally behaving himself?”

“If you pretend he didn't have a little meltdown over his new dose, sure, picture perfect inmate.” Jim takes a drink of his whiskey and sighs appreciatively. “Can't really be talking about this though.”

“Just pretend I’m a concerned friend,” Harvey insists, and Jim glares at him over the rim of his glass as he takes another drink. “What?”

“You were never his friend.”

“Oh, like you two were peas in a damn pod at the GCPD.”

Jim shrugs. “We weren’t that close, not enough to confide in one another, but I was a hell of a lot closer to him than you were.”

“Yeah? And look what it got you.”

Jim sighs, and after he sets his glass down he whispers, “I know what you're saying but I was guilty. Not of that murder, but at the time,” he shrugs one shoulder. “If Ed had found out about that, things would be very different.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not according to the statute of limitations.”

“Well, no one's really looking all that hard to solve the murder of a guy like Theo Galavan.”

Jim nods with reluctant agreement and picks his glass back up. Someone across the bar waves to get Harvey's attention and he steps away from Jim to tend to his actual customers. He sips at the whiskey, watching Harvey make a mixed drink and engage in some banter with someone Jim doesn't know but assumes is a regular based on the handful of times their visits to the bar have overlapped.

“There is something I can talk about,” he says as Harvey approaches. There's a glimmer of mischief not unlike Ed's, and then Harvey is attentively leaning over the bar to listen. “I gave Ed some copies of old case files.”

Harvey's eyebrows shoot up. “You did what?”

“I still have access to the file room at the GCPD since I manage some of Gotham's more memorable crime doers. Remember that cabinet in the way back? It has a ton of cold cases just sitting there because no one has time to look for new leads on fifty year old cases, so I copied a good portion of the oldest ones and gave them to Ed.” Jim takes a drink and adds, triumphantly, “and he found a lead.”

~

Ed's taken to sitting at his desk when Jim comes to get a progress report from him. The bed is as meticulously made as ever, but Jim's come to learn that's just something Ed does, because even when the covers are pristine the dark smudges haven't come back near as strong as they did when he first moved to this cell. They're still around (chronic sleep debt will do that to a guy) but he's actually been somewhat amicable recently, which means he's giving Jim more tension headaches from all the sass and riddles. Some things don't really change.

But today they have, because Ed is cowed, answering Jim's questions monosyllabically and refusing to look him in the eye. At the end of the visit Jim is hesitant to leave, but Ed's not in a talkative mood so he has no reason to stay.

“Wait,” Ed says, and he shuffles through his left drawer and pulls out one of the crossword books. “It's done.”

“Fine,” Jim says. “I'll bring a replacement next time.”

“I can be shared with two, but tell a third and I disappear.”

It's the most he's said the entire time, so of course it's a riddle. Jim decides not to dwell on an answer, especially when Ed's turned his back to Jim in order to hunch over some of the papers on his desk. “See you in a couple days.”

He's part way through the motion of throwing the crossword book away in a nearby trash bin when he stops. If Ed hadn't acted any differently he wouldn't have such an odd feeling, but he was unusually quiet with no explanation. Jim handles the front cover of the crossword book and flips to the title page, but the first thing he sees is a page full of colorful squares randomly scattered across the page. “What the hell?”

He closes the cover and waits until he's back in his office before he flips it open again and sets the squares page aside. Ed wasn't lying when he said he finished the puzzles. Every one is filled in with a rainbow of letters. The more Jim starts paying attention to the answers the more he starts to see a pattern. “You gotta be kidding me.”

~

“He wrote you a code?”

“He wrote by color. The note was about that strangler case from the seventies. A series of women all found in the same park with the same background. Ed found another link in the crime photos. Killer had muscle weakness in their left hand.” Jim sighs, “but I don't have access to the GCPD databases anymore to see if that fits with any of the suspects on file.” Jim sighs and starts trying to look pitiful and Harvey is already shaking his head. “I wanted to know if you know someone that would be willing to do that for me. And if the lead does solve the case, they have to be willing to go with me to the Commissioner, explain the situation and that Ed broke the case, and pray with me to hopefully not get fired for going behind everyone's back with this project.”

“Unbelievable,” Harvey groans. “I'm not even your boss anymore. How are you still giving me ulcers?”

“Is that a no?”

“I do know someone. He comes in with some of his buddies on the weekends. Remember little green Jimbo of old? Imagine that, but in the body of this springy little Hispanic guy. Diaz is a good cop but he's a pain in the ass. Reminds me of somebody.” He gives Jim a look and Jim plays innocent. “I'll give you a call when he comes by.”

-

Jim has a newspaper tucked under his arm as he walks to Ed's cell, but he slows and watches as a disgruntled looking orderly exits the medical wing while swearing under his breath.

“Not a great sign,” Jim says to himself. He strides over to Ed's door and unlocks it, slipping in and sighing tiredly when he sees the smug look on Ed's face. “What did you do?”

“Word travels awfully quick around here.”

“I was on the way over.” Jim keeps the paper to himself for now and leans against the wall. “So?”

“You're not going to guess?” Ed asks. Jim doesn't move but he can feel his eyebrow twitch. “You're no fun. It was just a riddle.”

“Yeah, I've heard your riddles, so I'm guessing you insulted him.”

“Only if he got it right,” Ed smirks, then he starts actually focusing on Jim and the paper he's holding. “Exciting news?”

Jim holds up the front page and shrugs. “Oswald Cobblepot Declared Not Guilty” is in bold letters across the top, and a picture of Oswald smiling by his lawyer just underneath. “Someone got a good lawyer.” He gives the paper to Ed and watches the intent focus he directs towards the photo. “He's a free man, for now at least.”

“Easy when he actually didn't rob that bank,” Ed says. There's a moment where Jim thinks Ed is going to keep the paper, but he holds it out for Jim to take.

“Keep it,” he says. “I have another copy in my office.” A lie, but Ed takes great care to set it aside with Oswald's photo facing up, so Jim feels he's made a good choice. “I have some other, less public news that I think you'll like. Remember that note you gave me?”

“I'd begun to wonder if you threw it out,” Ed says.

“Nope,” Jim smiles tensely, “handed the lead to a new buddy of mine who's still at the GCPD, and he looked into it.” Jim wishes he had something concrete to show Ed about the case, but he's taken other things from Jim at face value. “And he found the guy. He's in a nursing home, cancer. Probably doesn't have enough time to even get to trial. But he did get a dying declaration out of him.”

“A declaration?” Ed sounds skeptical. “As in, just his word?”

“Just his confession,” Jim says, “to all of it. To be published the moment he's declared dead.”

“I'm sure your bleeding heart would rather have justice for the families.”

“You know his MO,” Jim says. “No families. No kids, spouses, parents. No ties. It's not the justice I want, but it's the answer to a fifty year old case nonetheless. Mystery solved.”

Ed's face lightens a bit. “Good for this detective friend of yours. Nice career boost.”

He starts to turn around before Jim adds, “you're being named an investigator on the case.” He turns back, wary and more than a little skittish. “You solved the case. Found the link no one else saw.”

“I'm an inmate at an insane asylum.”

“And before that you were one of the best forensics techs I've ever worked with. You saw things people missed all the time. Don't see why that had to go to waste here.”

Ed scoffs, “I'll believe it when I see it.”

-

There's still this unsettled roiling Jim's stomach does whenever he sees Oswald approaching with his trademark smirk and devious glare, but Jim reminds himself that they're in his territory now. He's the one that called Oswald in, he's the one sitting in a chair watching the other approach, and even though Oswald doesn't know it yet, Jim's the one with the upper hand.

“James Gordon, it's been an age,” Oswald says as he ducks his head a bit with false formality. He smirks down at Jim and remains standing by the now closed door. “Now I have to wonder why you called me in here. Certainly nothing as foolish as a trap?”

Jim doesn't say anything and gets up from his chair. He opens a filing cabinet and rifles around through the folders even though the one he wants is right up front. Oswald doesn't look any less smug when Jim plucks it from the cabinet and drops himself back into his seat, nor does he react when Jim flips it open and reads, “Cobblepot, Oswald C. Former inmate of Arkham, a handful of stints here and at Blackgate, current status,” he pauses and looks at Oswald, “released.” Jim snaps the folder shut and gestures to the chair. “Congrats on winning your case.”

“I'll stand,” he says, “but thank you. It was a good win, in fact,” he smiles wider, all predator and no joy, “it was a fine example of justice.”

“Sure,” Jim smiles, equally as mirthless. “But I didn't call you here to talk about that. We're here to talk about Ed.”

Oswald does a damned good job of feigning ignorance but Jim's known him for too long to fall for it. “I can't imagine what you mean by that.”

“I think you know. You care about him. He cares about you. I'm mildly surprised you haven't barged in here on your own before this.” Jim adds, “unless you expected him to be out of here by now. Guess you didn't know about the straitjacket.”

Oswald’s expression falters for a moment before settling back into calm smugness. “Keeping people in has never been Arkham’s strong suit.”

Jim nods. “You have to want to be here to get anything out of it anyway. Ed does,” Jim says, and Oswald laughs loudly. “If he wanted to leave, it would be easy. Can't get the orderlies to shut up about it, but he's still here. And, something you probably didn't know, he's in therapy.”

“Of course he's in therapy,” Oswald snaps.

“He's participating. One on one.” Oswald’s expression becomes somber, and mildly confused. He reaches out with one gloved hand and grabs onto the back of the chair. Jim gestures to the chair a second time, and this time Oswald sits, but lightly as if he's prepared to bolt. “Turns out he just didn't really like group therapy. He’s been more open in private sessions.”

“Good for him,” Oswald lacks a lot of his usual sass.

“He brings you up a lot.” Oswald sucks in a breath. “Good and bad. You're a prominent fixture in most of his sessions.”

“I thought therapy sessions were supposed to be confidential,” he deflects, squirming uncomfortably. “Still bending rules, I see.”

“His therapist brought this up because she wanted to extend an offer to you, and since I manage your case as well as Ed's, I told her I would bring you in.” Jim opens up Oswald's folder and pulls out a voluntary waiver and hands it over to him. Oswald starts reading while Jim speaks. “She wants you to come in for outpatient therapy-”

“Pass,” he interrupts and tries to hand the waiver back.

“-which she would conduct simultaneously with Ed's therapy sessions.” He pauses to let that sink in and watches Oswald slowly bring the paper back in front of him. “Ed isn't approved to have visitors yet, and at the rate he's going, it might be awhile until he is.” Oswald actually smirks for a second but he's stoic once he looks back up at Jim. “This wouldn't be like a visitation. There's no plexiglass wall, and no guards. Just you, Ed, and his therapist. Your therapist, if you accept.”

“This is,” Oswald clears his throat, “an interesting offer. Certainly something to ponder.” Oswald stands and hands back the paper. “I should be going.”

“If you're not going to take this seriously, then don't do it. And if you try to break him out during a session, you'll only hurt him in the long run,” Jim says. Oswald has already turned away from Jim so he can't see see his face. He does, however, see the angry way his shoulders tense up. “Some part of him knows he needs be here. You of all people should be able to see-”

“Yes! Thank you!” Oswald turns back around snatches the paper from Jim’s hand. He shoves it into the pocket behind his lapel. “Now, as I said before, I really am quite busy. I will ponder this proposal when I have a free moment.”

“Take all the time you need,” Jim says, and Oswald fumes at him for a moment before plastering on one of his fake smiles and storming out of Jim's office.

-

If Jim could throw himself onto the bartop and get Harvey to agree to periodically pour whiskey directly into his mouth he would, but he’s managed to make it five months without giving the director or mayor or whoever still signs his paychecks reason to fire him. He musters up what little willpower he has and claims his usual barstool near the door.

Harvey does an actual double take when he sees Jim, so he must look pretty damn awful. There’s already a glass and some sort of alcohol appearing in Harvey’s hands as he approaches, and Jim doesn’t say a word until he’s chugged the half glass of whiskey Harvey handed to him. “Do you think it’s too late to quit and ask for a job here?”

“Who the hell did you piss off this time?”

If Jim had more energy left he would try to look offended, but he doesn’t, so he just holds his glass up with one hand and rests his chin in the other. Harvey’s partway into pouring another glass when he answers. “The Commissioner. The  _ new  _ Commissioner. He thought I was ‘spending too many resources on one person’,” he quotes with his glass hand, “so I spent half the day in his office arguing to keep Ed’s perks, and the other half having to deal with Ed’s impending meltdown.”

“And the winner?”

“No one,” Jim groans. “I haven't figured out a plan, Ed was zero help, and the second Oswald gets wind of this, he's going to fillet me.”

Harvey doesn't offer any suggestions, which Jim is thankful for. He steps away in the relative quiet of the bar on a Tuesday night, gulping down drink after drink until he's comfortably drunk and overly warm. There’s never an epiphany moment during his short stint at the bar, and he seamlessly transitions from being hunched over at the bar to the passenger seat of a car with no memory of walking there.

“I’m not driving right?” he mumbles. He glances to his left and finds Harvey driving with one arm on the wheel and the other on the armrest between the front seats. “Shit, is it closing time?”

“Nah,” Harvey says, “but you got yourself plastered on a Tuesday. Not exactly a heavy drinking night for most people.”

“Sorry,” he slurs. Jim forces himself into a proper seated position in an effort to keep himself awake. “Are you taking me home?”

“Wrong again. You’re going to have one hell of a hangover, and I’m not dragging your ass up to your apartment just to have to drag you back down to give you a ride.” Harvey turns onto the road leading to Arkham Asylum and Jim groans. “You brought this on yourself, Jimbo. Hope you have a couch in that fancy office of yours.”

He does, although Jim has never tried to sleep on it, and would probably go as far as calling it relatively uncomfortable. But the thought of having to function in the morning kind of makes him want to cry, and he takes that as a sure sign that he drank too much. Thankfully there’s a staff entrance closer to his office than the main entrance, and he doesn’t even need Harvey’s guidance to make his key work. He waves at the car as Harvey drives away; Harvey responds by honking lightly a couple times as he turns out of the lot.

Jim makes several grand plans on the way up to his office to help make his morning more pleasant, and the only one he manages to follow through on is grabbing a bottle of water from his mini fridge and setting it on the floor near his head. His sleep isn’t restful, but he also doesn’t get far enough under to dream. As he predicted, the couch is not comfortable, and in case his hangover wasn’t bad enough, he also has a sore back to contend with.

He can’t even manage to pretend to work for the first half hour, too busy trying to hydrate and banish his pounding headache. It actually seems to be working, at least until there’s heavy pounding on his office door followed by the all too familiar shrieking yell of Oswald.

“James!” Oswald keeps shouting even after he’s opened the office door and flipped on the light. 

“Softer, please,” Jim whispers.

Oswald returns the favor by slamming his cane against the floor a few times. “Something. Is. Wrong.” Jim agrees, although he knows Oswald doesn’t mean the wave of nausea. “I arrived here promptly for my and Ed’s appointment, only to be met with-” he scoffs and smacks the end of his cane on Jim’s desk when he puts his head down- “a cancellation! Without warning! And a  _ refusal  _ to tell me why. And on top of all of that you're hungover!”

“Sit down,” Jim tells him. He has to close his eyes for a second and forces his stomach to settle, but when he opens them he's pleasantly surprised to see Oswald has listened to him. “You're not wrong.”

“About your state of invalidity or Ed's mysterious absence?”

“Both,” he admits. “Really long day. About Ed, actually. New Commissioner doesn't really share my opinions about Ed's private bathroom or relative perks or the freedom to move around.”

“I’ll kill him!”

“No, you won't,” Jim orders.

“I won't do it myself,” Oswald assures Jim, as if that was the cause for concern. “I'm still well connected.”

“Don't tell me that. I didn't hear that.” Jim presses his fingers into his eyes to try and stop some of the pounding in his forehead. “He'll be moved out of his current cell, probably won't get to have his joint therapy with you. You're kind of a flight risk. And honestly, he'll probably end up back in group therapy. Private therapists aren't cheap.”

Oswald fumes for a moment before settling back into something serious. “And what are you doing to stop this?”

“Not much I can do,” he mutters. “This is coming from above my head.”

Oswald is quiet for longer than Jim expected, and he revels in each blissful second before Oswald asks, “what if there’s a fire?”

“No! God,” he groans and rubs his temples. “This is already difficult enough without you trying to take matters into your own hands.”

“Well the alternative is leaving it to  _ Ed _ .”

Jim starts to protest, and he sighs. “I get what you’re saying, but letting him escape will be used against him. They’ll find some extreme they haven’t thought to use in order to keep him in here.”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “So make him promise not to escape, James. He'll listen if you say it was my idea.”

“He’s not going to just roll over and take this!” Jim snaps. Oswald raises one eyebrow and stares at Jim, and the fog created by his hangover clears for just a few seconds, and his mouth opens with surprise. “Okay, well, now you might be onto something.”

-

Jim's been working really hard on not appearing smug in front of the people that keep him employed, but as he stands before the Commissioner's desk with the day's newspaper under one arm, watching the man slowly turn purple as he reads the many orderly and guard complaints about Ed Nygma, aka the Riddler, aka the biggest pain in the ass when he's not getting his way, he can't help but let himself smirk just a little.

“He's incited three riots during group therapy-”

“Oh, four. There was one yesterday. Didn't get a chance to run by the complaint box this morning.”

“Five times he's cried wolf about several medical issues, all were determined to be lies.”

“Kind of what crying wolf means-”

“There isn't a single guard or orderly willing to work the rounds that pass by his cell.”

“I've been bringing him his medication,” Jim agrees. “And food, since he got himself banned from the mess hall. And since he's in that cell someone has to bring him to the facilities multiple times a day.” Jim shrugs. “Not really getting paid to babysit but I don't have much time for anything else.”

“You certainly don't seem all that surprised Gordon.”

“I told you this would happen when you said his private room was ‘frivolous spending’, and 'a misuse of the Asylum's resources’.” He watches the vein in the man's forehead bulge out and has to bite his tongue to keep from smirking too much. “I know my patients.”

“You show favoritism to your patients.”

“I'd like to think of it like favoritism to not having massive staff rollovers because of one difficult patient.” Jim takes the newspaper out and unfolds it so the entire front page is visible. “Maybe it's special treatment, but consider it a reward for this.” He shows the Commissioner the headline: Riddler Solves Half-Century Old Case. He starts reading, “Ed Nygma, aka the Riddler, returns his genius to the side of justice with a case solving breakthrough on a fifty year old serial killing.” He stops when he notices the way the Commissioner's face has turned beet red again. “Yeah, I didn't get permission to let him review the case. This is me asking for forgiveness.”

“The-” he sputters, “the blatant insubordination-”

“You can fire me if you want.” Except they both know he can't, not on the wake of Ed's first solved case. He didn't bother reading to the part where he's quoted and named the person behind allowing Ed to work on cases, but there isn't anyone else willing to be in Ed's company for any length of time let alone give him amenities and tasks. “Before you ask I’ve taken precautions. He doesn’t have access to any of the original files, just copies, and none of the evidence.” Jim folds the paper in half and tucks it back under his arm. “And he doesn’t leave. I’m just trying to keep him from getting bored, because when he’s bored he starts riots, alienates the entire staff, you know. The usual.” He can already see the reluctant acceptance starting to dawn on the Commissioner’s face. “I’ll even guarantee that moving him back will make things better.”

The Commissioner sighs. “Fine, fine. But I want that in writing.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a part 2 of 2 for Nygmobblepot week over on tumblr (zsaszmatazz.tumblr.com)

One of Oswald’s least favorite things about therapy, aside from the location (Arkham) and the seemingly endless onslaught of personal introspection, is just how often his day seems to end up derailed because something is keeping Ed from making his appointment on time.

Today, unfortunately, is no different. He was ushered into Jim’s office the moment his cane echoed in the entryway, and the man hasn’t even had the decency to show up let alone offer Oswald a weak, bitter cup of coffee from his private machine.

He sighs loudly, and bounces his foot while glaring at the door, and when that doesn’t work he kicks his legs out in an undignified splay and scans Jim’s office. He’s done almost no decorating since landing the position five years ago, although it appears that he’s gotten himself a new office chair since the last time Oswald was here. There's one new adornment, a frame on the corner of Jim's desk, and Oswald snatches it up greedily. He's expecting some woman, or maybe an illegitimate but still loved child he's managed to sire, but his glee fades to confusion as he studies the photo of a man that is not Jim and a child that most certainly _is_ , and he's forced to conclude that the man must be Jim's father given the familial resemblance.

He returns it to the corner and resumes his sulk, this time with a bit more audible complaining. “Gordon!” He shouts out into the hall through the closed door. “At least have the decency to get an assistant so they can offer me your bad coffee!”

Even that doesn't work, and Oswald continues to fume at the clock on the wall until the door opens with a soft click and in saunters the man of the hour, Mr I-can’t-be-bothered-to-offer-hospitality-to-my-guests, but he does hand Oswald a bottle of water, which is a step in the right direction.

“Morning Oswald. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Like hell you are!” He opens the bottle so forcefully that a bit of water sloshes out and onto the tile floor, and then he caps it again when he decides the water was a ploy to try and keep him from getting worked up.

Jim shrugs. “You caught me,” he deadpans. He sits in his fancy chair and takes a drink from the mug of coffee he walked in with. “You're going to have to wait a bit longer.”

“Why is it that I can't seem to learn this until _after_ I come all the way out here?” Oswald sneers are Jim with the hopes that they can get into a genuine argument over this. He's itching for a fight, and verbal blows will do just fine, but Jim remains calm and nonchalant, which only infuriates him _more_. “I'm taking your non-answer as proof it's just to inconvenience me.”

“You don't answer your phone,” Jim says. “Or you gave me another fake number. Kind of hard to pity you when you're doing this to yourself. Maybe you really just want to have a chat but you're too proud to say it.”

“Well certainly it isn't _that_ ,” Oswald scoffs. He glances to the frame and back to Jim's unflappable expression. “Is that your father?”

And the unflappable _flap._ Jim clears his throat around some unreadable emotion and gives Oswald a tight smile. “Yeah.”

“It’s an old photo,” Oswald presses. “Seems a bit odd to put it out _now_.”

“I have my reasons,” he says.

“And?”

“And I'm not going to tell you.” Jim has a rather cheeky smile when he knows something Oswald _doesn't,_ like he's lording it over him just by being a damn tease.

Oswald gapes at him. “What happened to having a _chat_?”

“You'll make fun of me if I told you,” he says, “so I'm not doing that.” He's enjoying this, clearly, but after savoring his apparent victory over Oswald he switches to his serious work face and gets to the matter at hand. “Ed's going to be about an hour still.”

“An _hour_!?” Oswald shrieks.

“Easy. I already said I tried to call you,” Jim says this very gently, as if kind words are going to give Oswald his precious time back. “He needs to do a private eval.”

“I see.” Oswald tries to recall their last joint session. Surely something about Isabell _a_ , probably something about a lot of things, but nothing heated, nothing so vicious or angry that Ed would refuse what little time they get to share that doesn't involve guards or walls or plexiglass. “Why?”

“It's that time of year,” Jim says. He lifts up his planner and flashes the current week at Oswald, indicating the bold print spelling out “Nygma Release Hearing” across the entire top half of this coming Friday. “It's for the board members. Standard procedure. We've all been through this before.”

“It's a waste of the board's time,” Oswald says. He doesn't mention his own time but he's sure Jim managed to hear it all the same. “Bruce Wayne is on that board. Last I heard their interactions together went something like, oh let's see, torturous. Or maybe it was an attempted murder. Who can remember anymore?”

“Yeah,” Jim nods, “but we both know he's made progress.”

“He blew up _several_ buildings.”

“Are you trying to convince me he should stay?” Jim asks, “or are you just trying to not get disappointed again?”

“It isn't a _disappointment_ when it's the inevitable,” Oswald snaps. He crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for Jim to try and convince him otherwise, but the pep talk never comes. “What time is his hearing?”

-

Oswald shifts his weight on the uncomfortable bench outside the hearing room and sighs heavily. He glances at Jim and watches him take another drink of coffee and read the paper, and Oswald sighs again. The third time he moves around he makes sure to bump into Jim with his elbow and sigh in his direction, and it _finally_ gets him to set the paper down on his leg and give Oswald’s distress proper attention.

“Are you frustrated about something, Oswald,” he asks with more than a little sarcasm.

Oswald answers as if he was being sincere. “Why yes I _am_ , James, thank you for caring.” Jim is somewhere between unimpressed and tired, which isn’t the most favorable of his moods but far from impossible to work with. “As much as I enjoy your company I really should get in there.”

“You’re not going in there Oswald. It’s a closed hearing for a reason.”

“Of all the,” Oswald huffs, “I should be in there. They approved joint therapy didn’t they? Why not a joint hearing? No offense intended to Ed either, but we both know who’s more charismatic between the two of us.”

“That’s why you can’t be in there, Oswald,” Jim groans. “You’re right, okay? I can admit that if you were allowed in that hearing you could have probably sweet talked the board into releasing him years ago.” Oswald preens a bit from the praise, and Jim rolls his eyes. “Don’t take that as a complement.”

“From my position it sounds like you’re saying I would have gotten results ages ago.”

“Your method doesn’t actually _help_ him. Are you telling me if you had the chance to go back five years and undo this you would?” Oswald can’t make himself hold Jim’s judgemental stare for long. He focuses on a point across the hallway, some poster that’s supposed to encourage inner peace or some other nonsense, and he shakes his head only once, but Jim still sees. “Good. It shouldn’t be much longer anyway. They base a good portion of their decision on the evaluation he had a few days ago.”

“I _have_ been through this before,” he reminds Jim, both in and out of that room. Briefly he wonders if they ever replaced the carpet; the sickly tan color always made him feel vaguely nauseated.

Not even ten minutes later the doorknob begins turning and Oswald is on his feet in an instant. It's Ed, and if his grim visage is anything to go by they're going to have to keep living with their extremely limited one hour of contact. Oswald smiles at him and gently guides him to sidestep once so he's no longer blocking the door. The board members begin filing out of the room with only the occasional nod in Jim's direction.

“There's always next year,” he tells Ed. The startled blink makes Ed look so lost. If they weren't surrounded by the very people so dead set on keeping Ed here Oswald say something scathing about the lot of them.

“Next-next year?” Ed flounders for a bit, and he locks onto Oswald's hands with laser focus. Oswald offers him one gloved hand, and the somewhat blocked contact is enough for Ed to gather his thoughts. “What's next year?”

“Your hearing,” Oswald says. He's a bit surprised this one rattled Ed so much. “Unless they changed it to twice a year? You know, that kind of thing is a sign of improvement-”

“I was approved,” he whispers. There's something about that Ed's clearly not getting; he can't seem to grasp onto anything other than Oswald's hand, which he's doing so with an uncomfortably tight grip.

“A- wait, what?” Ed's taking this news with a lot more panic than Oswald ever expected. Oswald turns to Jim, who's looking about as shocked as Oswald at the news. “You’re approved for release?”

Before Ed can manage to phase back into reality out saunters Bruce Wayne with a shitty grin and somehow conveying he's clearly the man of every hour even when his only role is to check yes or no on a sheet of paper. He hones in on Ed, ignores the flinch his proximity causes, and pulls one of Ed's hands into both of his to give it a firm shake. “Congratulations!” he near-shouts. “Really, amazing work. I _love_ those news clippings. Riddler Solves Another!” he shouts, “great stuff. Do you keep clippings? You should keep clippings.”

“I um… thank you?”

“Great stuff.” He finally releases Ed's hand and notices Oswald, and it's only because Ed won't let go that he's forced into his own vigorous shake from Gotham's playboy orphan. “Oswald, it's great to see you!” He's bright and bombastic, and Oswald really just wants to slither away into a hole somewhere since it's obvious Bruce is going to keep filling this room with his personal brand of pep. “How have you been? Are you here for him?” he questions as he points to Ed, somehow missing the part where they're _holding hands_. “You know, I've been thinking we need to catch up.”

“I'm afraid I'll be busy for some time,” Oswald shrugs. If he does things right he'll be busy until they're covering his casket with dirt and not a second before. “I'll be sure to let you know when my schedule clears up.”

Bruce doesn't seem to hear him or care about his answer. He's moved onto Jim, who does a far more admirable job of accepting his handshake and playing nice. Oswald uses the distraction to make Ed sit down before he starts wheezing.

“You're doing excellent work out here,” Bruce tells Jim. “I can't believe it, really.”

“Thanks,” Jim nods. He manages to free his hand and Oswald shoves his own into his pockets to keep Bruce from trying to leech onto him again. “So it's true then? Ed's free to go?”

“You didn't tell them?” he exclaims at Ed, and again Ed flinches. Oswald feels an instinctual pull to place himself in front of Ed while this young man keeps spewing out word vomit. “Yeah, course he is. That's what the board just decided. They didn't change it already did they?” he jokes. “No, I'm kidding, I'm kidding.” He settles into blissful silence, but only for a few seconds because his phone starts shrieking from his hip. Bruce glances at the number and rejects the call. “World keeps turning, right?” He claps Jim’s arm as he strides past them, sparing a moment to turn and gesture to Jim and then Ed, calling back an enthusiastic, “keep up the good work!” and then as an afterthought, “Oswald, we’re doing dinner. My treat. I’ll call you.”

Oswald holds his empty smile until Bruce turns away, and then his eyes nearly roll back into his head when he sighs. “And you judged me for having a fake number.”

“No, I judged you for giving _me_ the fake number,” Jim says. “Bruce is,” he laughs, “he’s a character. Let’s go with that.”

There’s a series of insistent tugs to the back of Oswald’s suit coat, and he turns back to Ed, feeling a bit guilty that he let Bruce’s antics overshadow Ed’s obvious distress. Some of Ed’s little lost lamb look has gone away, although the green tint to his skin might not be an improvement. “I am very nauseated.”

“Let’s get you back to your room for now,” Jim says. Oswald gestures helplessly, and thankfully Jim is aware enough to realize why he’s not making much sense. “Releases don’t happen instantaneously. Probably won’t be final until next week. C’mon, I’ll bring you there and then Oswald, we’ll meet up in my office.”

-

The days leading up to Ed's release date are a blur of instructions, dismissal of said instructions (as a jest although some people can't seem to take a joke), reprimands about the importance of following instructions, joint therapy, individual therapy, really just too much therapy all around, and a buzzing, anxious air every time Oswald wakes to a cold and lonely bed but knowing that, very soon, he's no longer going to be the sole occupant.

“It's a big adjustment,” Jim says, with the same serious tone he's used to say it every other time Oswald comes to his office for a little chat. “After five years of being here, five years of a structure being laid out for him-”

“The world is free and open and _big_ , I got that,” Oswald snaps. “This isn't a point you need to keep drilling me about.”

“His release is official in an hour.”

“Why do you think I got here early,” Oswald huffs. He handles the small bag of clothes he brought for Ed. It's terribly cold outside so he stuck with sweaters, flannels, anything that looked warm and comfortable and soft.  “Is there going to be some sort of fanfare over this?”

“I may have lied to the media about his release date. Oops.” Jim is definitely _not_ sorry about this “mix up” and Oswald hates to admit to himself that he's never felt more grateful for the man than in this moment. “You'll be able to leave without a swarm. I'm sure Ed will appreciate that. His stomach has been,” Jim grimaces, “delicate.”

“It's the least charming thing about him,” Oswald admits. “Nervous stomach.”

“That's not the thing I'd pick,” Jim sighs. “Not important. Here, we need to go over some things.” He pulls out a small packet of papers and Oswald's face scrunches up with disgust. “It's only a couple things, I swear. I know you're getting impatient.”

“If you already know that then why am I not already in my car with Ed?”

“Because we have to do this by the _book_ , Oswald. We can't afford to cut any corners.” He scans the first page of the packet and flips to the next one. “Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot,” he smirks up at Oswald, who glares at him until he moves on from his apparently _hilarious_ middle name. “The board has accepted your offer to share residence with Edward Edwin-I’m sorry I can’t take this formally anymore.” Jim rubs his hand over his face and laughs to himself. “Ed’s going to live with you, right?”

“Yes,” Oswald says. “I imagine the realtors in Gotham have wised up about selling property to Rogues.”

“Let’s hope,” Jim agrees. “Still the Van Dahl mansion?”

“It’s _my_ mansion,” Oswald corrects, “but yes, I suppose.”

“Great,” Jim scribbles something on the packet. “And your contact information is up to date?”

“Yes.” Jim turns the page, and then he turns back to the previous and stares it down, leaving Oswald to fidget and watch the big hand inch ever closer to Ed's release time. “Well?” he blurts out. “Do we have some sort of problem?”

“This is a real phone number, right?”

“Of course,” Oswald scoffs.

Jim stares him down, expression blank but edging on something serious. “And it's _your_ real number?”

Oswald grins, drawing out his response, “ _maybe_.”

There's this lovely vein in Jim's neck that starts to pulse when he's trying his best to not yell. It's standing up so strongly that Oswald swears he can count the heartbeats. “Oswald this is _serious_. You can't just screen your calls from me or anyone else here at Arkham. Unless you want Ed living in some halfway house-”

“I was being facetious!” he laughs, a bit incredulous. “Jim, yes, it's _my_ number. You're the one that said you couldn't take this formally, and I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Please, just save that for Ed, okay? Formal or not this is still _important_.”

“Yes alright,” Oswald sighs. Jim's going to be a wet blanket until this is over with. Nothing Oswald can do but play along. “Carry on.”

Jim nods appreciative of Oswald's claim to cooperate, and continues. “The two of you need to come in for therapy twice a week,” and before Oswald can voice his protest, “yes I do mean twice a week. It's a huge transition for both of you, and the people above my pay grade are going to want to hear that Ed hasn't relapsed the moment he's free of this place.”

“I'd like to, once again, voice my strong opinion that this place had a direct hand in those previous relapses.”

“Noted,” Jim says, and he actually scribbles something down on the packet. Whether or not it's actually Oswald's complaint or just nonsense isn't clear, but it's a nice touch. “I’m going to remind you again to answer your phone, because thanks to Ed's success we got approval to pay his therapist full time, but in exchange she needs to start working with more of the Rogues. Emergencies here take priority.”

“You'd think her poster child would take priority over,” Oswald trails off, fishing for information, but Jim ignores him. Oswald stretches his neck up to see over the photograph and Jim's phone, and he catches the name “Crane, Jonathan” on one of the files on Jim's desk and does some critical thinking. “I'm sure she'll work her magic on _whoever_ you throw at her.”

“That’s the plan.” Jim flips the packet to the front page and files it away in a folder. “I don't have much else to say. If there's anything going on you're both welcome to schedule extra sessions.” He tucks a few things into a second folder and stands. “If you go to the front we'll meet you there.”

“Ah, so I'm not allowed in the back? Can't share any of your secrets?”

“Don't push it,” Jim warns, but his expression is so bright it's almost boyish. “That for Ed?”

“Hm?” Oswald looks down to his lap at the bag of clothes and smiles to himself. “Ah, yes,” he hands it over to Jim. “Arkham black and white is far from flattering.”

“We'll be out in a few.”

Once Jim is gone Oswald closes his eyes and rests the back of his head against the chair. Mere minutes separate them from this dreary, limited time to all day, every day potential contact and conversation. It's more than a little terrifying.

Though Jim claimed the wait would be short Oswald dithers around Jim's office for a bit, fussing with his decrepit coffee maker and grimacing down at his watery cup of swill. He makes himself leave when the urge to snoop is impossible to ignore, because if he believes anything about today it's that the people above Jim would love any reason to bar Ed from leaving, and Oswald being his only housing option that isn't homelessness or a halfway house makes his record a very prominent piece in every discussion. He leaves his mostly full mug on the corner of Jim's desk and makes his way to the wooden benches by the main doors.

He still waits for at least ten minutes, most likely due to Ed's stomach but Oswald is equally ready to blame Jim and his over-talkative streak.

It's near impossible to mistake the two as they approach Oswald side by side. Ed's chosen a pair of dark gray slacks and the green sweater. He was aware of Ed's weight loss but not that it’s so prominent; his clothes hang off him around his shoulders and waist, making him look droopy and tired.

Scratch that, all of him looks droopy and tired, clothes or no, and if it weren't for the cameras and the front desk worker and Jim Oswald would have already snatched Ed into his arms and squirreled him out of this place for good.

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” Jim says, and after a brief pause for laughter that never comes he adds, “and maybe some things I would.” Jim hands a large stack of folders and files to Ed, and the gentle, self-soothing way he cradles them against his chest makes Oswald’s heart ache. “More cases. Something to tide you over for a few days. I'll keep in contact with the GCPD on your behalf for your consulting.” Ed's chin jerks once, less a nod and more a flinch, but Jim doesn't seem all that worried. “Good luck out there.”

He reaches out, intending to shake Ed's hand, but Ed just stares at it and refuses to let go of the files, so Oswald takes Jim's hand in his stead and gives him a firm shake. “I suppose you're due a thank you as well,” he says. “Never fear, I'll take him under my wing.”

“Well now I _am_ worried,” Jim jokes. As he turns and walks away he throws one last request their way. “Take care of yourselves.”

Oswald feels several exclamations build up in his throat and die off before he can make a sound. Nothing feels as moving as he wants it to be, and Ed's transitioning from stoic and mopey to a full body quake, so he sets aside his desire to have the last word and begins ushering Ed out the large front doors and out to their waiting car.

Again he finds his voice caught somewhere around his Adam's apple, lodged there in a way that reminds him too much of blubbering over things that just can't be helped. Every step is halting and stiff; normally Oswald wouldn't mind a slow pace but this is a bit excessive even for him. The only thing that keeps Ed moving forward, one jerking step in front of the other, is Oswald's hand against his back and the fierce winds threatening to snatch up his precious files.

They sit in silence, side by side but without an inch of contact. Oswald is thankful he gave their driver his instructions this morning, because the lump in his throat has only solidified with each passing second.

“You don't,” he cracks, can hardly understand himself, and Oswald has to clear his throat a few times before he sounds vaguely human. “You don't have to stay with me,” he says. “Not if you don't want to.”

“Wh-” Ed's neck whips around so fast it cracks, and he winces.

“You're welcome to, of course,” he lifts his hand to touch Ed's arm, but pulls back and makes a fist against his thigh. “I'd certainly prefer it, but if-” he grimaces, “if it's too much, then we'll find an alternative.”

Ed stares down at Oswald's fist, expression and body language unreadable. He's as stiff as a statue except for a tiny quiver at the corner of his lip.

He moves without warning of any kind, pitching to the side until he makes contact with Oswald's chest. Instinct causes Oswald to wrap around him before he fully understands what's happening; relief tears an ugly laugh-sob from his mouth when his brain finally catches up with his body.

There's a space behind Ed's ear, just at the edge of his hairline, that brings Ed down from even the most frantic of moods. Oswald administers feather-light touches with the pad of his thumb, brushing across the skin in a smooth, semicircular motion that follows the bone there. (He's sure Ed could rattle off just what he's rubbing but Oswald doesn't have the interest or patience to memorize something like that.) Ed still hangs onto his files, but they're one of only two constants in Ed's life at the moment, and having to let go of one may just break him completely.

He doesn’t stop holding Ed when they pull into the back parking lot of the Gotham Royal Hotel. There’s a young man standing outside, clad in a busboy uniform with one addition, an enamel penguin pinned to the collar of his crisp white shirt. He’s waiting to let them inside, shivering in the cold but keeping the distress off his face.

After some gentle coaxing, a few mentions of “I’ll be right by your side” and “don’t let Jim’s demands for good behavior think I won’t gut the first person to look at you wrong”, and he’s able to get Ed out of the car and through the held door that opens into a storage space near the service elevator. Despite there being ample room in the elevator he's nearly on top of Oswald as it takes them to the top floor.

“This isn't home,” Ed says out of the blue.

“No,” Oswald agrees, and he doesn't even tease Ed about being so obvious. “I had a feeling having the world at your fingertips would be,” he hums, “daunting,” (terrifying, or maybe confidence destroying) “so I made a few preparations ahead of time. We'll have a few days to gorge ourselves on room service,” he squeezes Ed's too thin waist, “and _then_ we'll conquer the city together. Legally, of course. Wouldn't want to upset James’ delicate feelings.”

"Thank you," Ed mouths. He shifts the folders so they're resting against his bony hip, cradled in one arm, and he snakes his now free arm around Oswald's. It's incredible progress; Oswald was beginning to worry the files were going to end up joining them in bed.

The penthouse suite remains one of _the_ best places to stay in Gotham. There's the obvious amenities: the lavish bed, giant bathroom with a soaker tub big enough for two, endless options for room service. But the most important detail is the large expanse of windows along the east wall. It's picturesque in the sense that up here, high enough to see most of the rooftops of the city below, nothing looks or feels real and tangible. It's an excellent way to be near the city at large without letting its slimy influence touch them, at least for a few days.

Ed lets go of Oswald and trails into the room, listlessly drifting from one point to the next as he pinballs back and forth. He fusses with anything that gets within reach, from the thick cord holding the decorative curtains back from the window to the drawers of the desk on the north wall. He drops the files onto the latter, not caring or not noticing when the pile slumps to one side and the top file slides dangerously close to the edge.

“Ed,” he calls out to him. Part of Ed's attention remains focused on the view outside the windows, but he glances over at Oswald out of the corner of his eye. Oswald makes a show of sweeping half the decorative pillows off the bed and draping himself across the duvet, trying to look as enticing as possible as he slumps into the wonderfully soft mattress. He pats the free half of the bed with his palm. “Come here,” he says. “Gotham isn't going anywhere.”

For Ed's sultry approach he's chosen something a bit more on the jittery, nervous wreck end of the spectrum, and once he's shuffled over to the bed he curls into a tight ball on the other half of the bed without touching Oswald in the slightest, so maybe their long awaited reunion isn't going to include jumping back in the sack right at the get go. Not that Oswald minds. Despite the warm sun filtering in through the windows he's ready to just call today a wash and start fresh in the morning.

“I think I meant something more like this,” Oswald whispers as he slips Ed's glasses off his face. He sets them on the bedside table behind him and rolls back over to gather Ed into his arms. He tries to keep his tone light and playful but when he speaks there’s a wavering edge to it, like _he’s_ about to start blubbering. Ah well, he won’t be the first. “Why don’t I just extend our reservation an extra week or two? Maybe a month.”

This startles a laugh out of Ed, but he slips right back to alternating between hitched breaths and sniffling. The hand not curled up against their chests feels like a vice against Oswald’s back. His hand tightens with every word he speaks. “I don’t know what comes next.”

“And you think I _do_?” Oswald laughs. “Ed, darling, it doesn’t _matter_.” He tips Ed’s face up and kisses him, and leaves their foreheads touching when they part. “We’ll figure it out together.”


End file.
